Lord of Sin

by Madeline Hunter

  Lyndale subjected her to a quick inspection, too. It was mild enough, but thorough.

  “Do you intend to ride wearing that?” he asked. It was not a challenge. He almost sounded concerned.

  “This will do. I do not own a riding dress.”

  “No? Then wouldn’t you be more comfortable . . .” he used the same gesture he had made yesterday to indicate her pantaloons and doublet.

  She had considered putting them on, but did not want to invite disapproval today. She needed him amenable to reason, not glancing askance at her garments.

  “Should we meet someone, I do not want to embarrass you.”

  “My dear Miss Cameron, it is unlikely we will meet anyone. Nor would it embarrass me if we did. I am a man of the world. A woman in pantaloons does not shock me, and I do not care about the opinions of those whom it does.” He smiled with kind understanding. “Please change, if you wish. I do not mind waiting.”

  Disarmed and grateful, she returned to the bedroom and pulled off the dress. Lord Lyndale was being much nicer today. Perhaps his journey had tired him yesterday. Maybe he just needed a good night’s sleep.

  She removed her petticoats and set them aside. They would not have done well on a saddle. She had anticipated a very awkward ride in that dress, with layers of garments hilling around her. Nor could the dress stand the damage that might come from the outing. It was very nice of Lord Lyndale to have surmised that.

  She donned pantaloons, sleeveless doublet and shirt, and pulled on her half boots. She slipped on one of her father’s old frock coats. It was too big, but it would not be clumsy.

  Lord Lyndale did not even blink at her peculiar apparel when she rejoined him. Exuding gentle charm, he escorted her to the horses.

  “It is very generous of you to allow me to ride one of yours,” she said.

  He helped her to mount a tall chestnut. “You are very sure he won’t be too much for you? I would be grieved if you came to any harm.”

  She laughed. She turned the chestnut’s head, dug her heels into his flanks, and flew away.

  The rumble of the other horse’s galloping hooves bore down on her soon. She did not rein in the chestnut until the house was a mere dot in the distance.

  She kept her horse trotting west. When they approached a large stand of trees, she aimed north.

  Lyndale looked at the forest flanking them on their left. “It is unusual to find such a woods here.”

  “It is a hunting preserve. It was Lord Reay’s, but since Sutherland bought the whole county four years ago, I expect it belongs to the duchess now.”

  “Does her family ever come to hunt here?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “So it just sits here, full of rabbits and deer. It must be tempting to poachers.”

  She slid a glance at him. There did not appear to be any suspicion in his expression.

  He noticed her attention. He returned a friendly smile.

  “How did your father come to learn his art if he lived in this glen, Miss Cameron?”

  “He was not born or raised in these parts, but west of Glasgow. He learned engraving in that city, then traveled the Continent for a while as a journeyman. He worked in studios in Rome and Paris and other cities. When he returned to Scotland, he opened his own engraving studio and a print shop.”

  “Not here, surely.”

  She chose her words very carefully. “No. He returned here before I was born, however. He had met my mother, and her family was from this region. When they married, he moved his press here.”

  It was the truth. She hoped he would not pursue whether it was the entire story, however.

  He did not. Today Lord Lyndale did not seem to have interrogation on his mind. He just trotted on, taking in the scenery.

  “I think those prints are indeed the addendum to Caraglio’s series, by the way. I took a good look at them last night.”

  “You truly think so? How extraordinary.”

  “Your father must have come upon them while traveling as a young man. He would not know what he had, of course.”

  “I am a little shocked he bought them, in any event.”

  “That is understandable. However, they are very well done. The compositions and the technique are superior. If you had studied them, which of course you did not, considering the subject matter, you would agree.”

  “I am in a quandary on what to do with them now.” She tried hard to appear perplexed and embarrassed.

  “I would like to bring them back to London with me, if you will permit it. I could consult with other experts. I also have the rest of the series and could do a comparison, side by side, to ascertain if—”

  “You own a set of the series?”

  “Yes. I inherited them from my uncle. Did I neglect to mention that?”

  He certainly had forgotten to mention that.

  He noticed her dismay. “I am afraid I have shocked you. The rest of the series is not as . . . inventive as these engravings. I have a theory that these were removed from most sets because they were more licentious than the others. My images are very, very mild in comparison. Couples embracing and such.”

  That was a blatant lie. She knew very well that the rest of the series, while milder, did not merely show embraces.

  “As I was saying, if I took these back with me, I could compare—”

  “I do not want to sell my father’s collection, Lord Lyndale.”

  “You do not have to sell them to me. It would be a loan, so I can research them. You offered just such an idea yesterday.”

  Yesterday she did not know he owned the rest of the series. Yesterday she did not expect him to do a side-by-side comparison.

  “I realize that I did. I apologize. My embarrassment over the content made me want to assure you I had no interest in them. However, on reflection, I have decided that, for good or ill, they are part of my father’s legacy. Short of dire need, I do not want to part with any of it. Please understand that his collection is all that I have left of him.”

  “Certainly, Miss Cameron. I would never want to interfere with those memories or that sentiment. After all, if their authenticity remains unknown, what does it matter.”

  What a nice thing to say. If he was the kind of connoisseur she thought, not pursuing this chance to identify rare, lost prints would drive him half mad. Yet here he was, retreating without an argument, to spare her any distress.

  He had sounded so sympathetic that she felt guilty for deceiving him. His manner this morning made it hard to remember that he was an irritating and potentially dangerous intrusion.

  “Let us go up that hill,” she suggested. “There is a wonderful prospect from the top.”

  She led the way up the high hill. At the top she slid off her horse. Lord Lyndale joined her and she showed him a spot from which one could look down on two glens.

  It was a beautiful vista, even in early winter. Steep hills poured down to the valleys on either side. Far to the west, beyond the blunted tops of other hills, one could just make out the peaks of mountains.

  “Isn’t it remarkable?” She raised her head and inhaled the crystalline air.

  “The view is so beautiful, it stirs my soul,” he said. “It makes me wish I were a poet, and could capture the sensation in words.”

  What an astonishing thing for this man to say. His voice had been so quiet, too. So heartfelt.

  She glanced over at him.

  Her breath left her.

  He was not gazing at the glens and hills. He was looking at her.

  And what a look it was. Dangerous, but deliciously so. Her blood pulsed with caution and excitement. There was no doubting what this man was thinking, and the thoughts made his handsome face even more devastating.

  It was not base lust reflected in those dark eyes, but a determined warmth that promised it was truly Bride Cameron he wanted, and not just any woman.

  That mesmerized her. That and the invisible, misty fog suddenly wrapping her, isolating he
r from the world. His attention captured her so completely that suddenly nothing existed except the wind and sun and him and her.

  “Exquisitely lovely,” he said. “It is the kind of beauty that only Scotland can produce.”

  She felt herself flushing from the praise. An inner voice cried that she was an idiot, but her essence refused to listen. Lyndale’s gaze had her heart swelling and her stomach tightening and her limbs shaking.

  He slowly crossed the few feet that separated them. Her heart pounded so hard it intruded on her breath.

  He gazed into her eyes as if she held no secrets from him. “So very delicate, like perfect porcelain.” His fingertips lightly touched her face, and his gaze followed their path down her cheek.

  A glorious tremor of pleasure thrilled down to her toes. She groped to keep some hold on herself, but that touch defeated her.

  His firm hand cupped her chin and gently tilted her head. Warm lips brushed hers.

  Her most womanly parts trembled alive.

  That felt so good. It had been so long, so achingly long since she had been touched and kissed. Her body reveled in the arousal streaming through her. She shamelessly waited for more.

  He embraced her and her senses swooned from the warmth and strength of his arms and chest.

  He kissed her firmly and took control.

  She had forgotten how delicious the pleasure was. Its sly rivulets kept multiplying and growing. His kisses got harder, bolder. More demanding. They bit down her neck to her pulse and fire joined the river awakening her.

  Slowly, with excruciating deliberation, his kisses trailed back up to her lips. She focused on each inch of their progress with breathless, mindless anticipation. She vaguely heard her own deep sighs marking every blood-scathing seduction.

  Warm breath and gentle teeth on her ear made her shiver. A soft kiss on her cheek demanded she turn her lips to him. The next kiss was invasive and ruthless, demolishing her sense of self completely.

  Her senses swam, twirled, spun in a chaos of eager pleasure. Hungers began claiming her consciousness. Cravings escalated, driving her mad.

  A firm press on her back made her arch against him. A shift in his embrace freed his right hand. A caress moved down her side, wonderfully. She wished no cloth protected her skin.

  His hand slid beneath her coat and cupped her breast and she almost died. The slow movement of his hand had her gritting her teeth so she would not beg the way her dazed mind urged her to.

  The long kiss stopped. Soft hair brushed her face. A new, intense pleasure shot through her body. She opened her eyes and watched his head bending to kiss and arouse her breast through the shirt’s linen. The pleasure was almost unbearable.

  She saw more than that dark head lowered for her pleasure, however. She also saw the ground and the sky and part of the distant glen. The bits of reality blinded her for a moment before collecting to become the world she knew.

  His reality split through her daze, too. Who he was, and what was happening. Shock crashed against the seductive euphoria.

  She pushed his shoulder, hard. She squirmed to escape his embrace.

  He let her go instantly. She jumped away and stared at him.

  He did not say anything. His expression remained annoyingly confident, however. The way he regarded her said he believed that if he reached for her again, she would not refuse.

  That alone created another traitorous tremor. Shaky and appalled with herself, she strode to the horses.

  She scrambled to get into her saddle. The chestnut was too high for her and she only made it halfway. She hovered there, right leg trying to swing over, desperate to get home. She knew she looked stupid, but she refused to hop back to the ground.

  Lyndale grasped her bottom from behind. He just held her for a moment, cupping her fullness like that shocking touch was due him. Then he gave the push that allowed her to find her seat.

  She yanked the reins to turn the horse. He grabbed the bridle and stopped her.

  He captured her gaze in his own. His expression made caution prickle her neck. It made other reactions prickle other parts of her body.

  Worse, she could tell he knew about all the prickles. He knew exactly what he was doing to her.

  He grabbed her arm, pulled her down toward him, and kissed her hard. It was a possessive, dominating kiss.

  She jerked back, out of his grasp.

  “I think that you are a scoundrel, Lord Lyndale.”

  “And I think that you did not mind at all that I am, Miss Cameron.”

  She tried to think of a good response, but her muddled mind would not cooperate. Cursing herself for weakness and stupidity, she aimed down the hill so she could gallop to safety.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Bride tore down the glen as if a devil were chasing her.

  The demon in question did not follow. He watched from the hill as her red hair and flying frock coat diminished with the distance.

  She was running away, but not from his advances. That much he knew with certainty, despite her parting insult.

  He had been a scoundrel with women often enough in his life, but not this time. He had given her plenty of opportunity to discourage him. Ample time to walk away.

  Instead she had welcomed the pleasure long enough to drive him mad before deciding to act like an importuned innocent. She had opened the door to abandon, beckoned him to cross the threshold, then slammed it in his face.

  His slowly easing frustration hurled a silent string of curses onto her fleeing head for that.

  His better sense knew none of her reactions had been planned, however. She had yielded completely, but then something in her had been shocked.

  Guilt, the great nemesis of pleasure, had reared its head.

  It had to do with that portrait drawing. Probably thoughts of her “friend” had broken through her ecstasy.

  He guessed that she had made all kinds of excuses for her old lover rather than face the humiliation of the truth. If given the chance, she would live here until she turned gray, awaiting the return of the man who had taken her passion and abandoned her.

  Ewan had seen that often enough with women, and it was a criminal waste. It was related to the peculiar illusions women constructed around lovemaking. Most women felt obliged to convince themselves that physical pleasure had to be something other than what it was in order to be enjoyed.

  It would help enormously if the poets would stop using the language of religious transcendence when they spoke of passion. There were actually people who took all that seriously, and what a disaster it always created.

  Bride became little more than a speck moving toward the distant house. Ewan mounted his horse. He would ride awhile before returning himself. When he did, he would explain to her how there was no need to run from passion.

  He would instruct her on the one great truth he knew—that sexual pleasure kept one excited to be alive. It made existence extraordinary instead of drab. He would reveal to her that lovemaking slowed the march of time, and created tiny eternities of complete perfection if one embraced the sensations openly and freely.

  If his visit here succeeded in nothing else, he would make sure that this exceptional young woman did not ruin her life and bury her womanhood while she pined for her worthless friend.

  She had not run away from him. She had fled from herself.

  When Bride left the horse at the stable, she saw their white mare there. Joan was back.

  She entered the house through the kitchen to find her sisters and Jilly gathered around the chimney. Michael had removed his shirt, and all the females were intent on watching the taut muscles of his naked back as he jammed a stick up the flue.

  Just as Bride closed the door behind her, a shower of cinder fell on Michael’s head and shoulders. A huge wad of black straw rolled down his back.

  Covered in soot, he turned to glare at the straw. “How in blazes did that get up there?”

  “It must be a nest,” Mary said.
<
br />   “Yes,” Joan said. “Some big bird must have built one atop the chimney and yesterday the wind blew it in.”

  “Doesn’t look like a nest to me.”

  “Oh, we have birds up here that make those kind,” Anne said. “They are very unusual, with blue wings and silver tails.”

  “Silver tails?”

  “They have some red feathers, too, and are the size of—”

  “Joan, our guest looks to need some water to wash,” Bride interrupted. Given any more time, Anne’s imagination would grow horns on the bird, and turn it into a prince under a spell. “Thank you for helping with the chimney, Michael. We would have been without hot food for days otherwise.”

  Joan led a blackened Michael outside. Bride caught his eye as he passed. “The chestnut needs tending. I require my sister’s company, so you will have to deal with it.”

  Jilly took the brooms out to clean up the straw. “Took a good, long time to get it out. You did a fine job with the straw, Bride.”

  “Anne, help Mary and Jilly, then please join me upstairs when that is done,” Bride said.

  She hurried up the stairs to the bedroom she was using, to seek a few minutes of privacy before her sisters arrived.

  Arms folded over her shirt to hold her emotions steady, she tried to calm the chaotic thoughts that had filled her head as she rode home.

  She had been an idiot today. A ridiculous, silly fool.

  Lyndale had not even had to try hard to start that seduction. A few deep gazes, a few weak flatteries, and she had all but torn off her clothes and jumped on him.

  The memories of her behavior were so embarrassing that she wanted to die.

  Only, the excitement had been so . . . enlivening. The thrills so delicious. The pleasure so . . . unearthly.

  It had felt so damned good.

  She had forgotten how wonderful those sensations could be. Their resurrection had disarmed her, caught her off guard. They had made her weak and indifferent to costs and consequences and just plainly, bluntly, and shamelessly hungry.

  Lyndale had reminded her of what she had lost when Walter left. Whatever had happened with Walter, whatever it had meant or not meant, she could not deny she had thoroughly enjoyed making love with him.